


Chasing off the Carrion Birds

by AkiRah



Series: Hold The Sky [7]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Because fuck not giving Duncan a proper funeral, Dead Parents, Flemeth's true grimoire, Gen, I love Duncan, Return to Ostagar, proper funerals for Cailan and Duncan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 17:41:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4755293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkiRah/pseuds/AkiRah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surana and her party turn their attention south to deal with Morrigan's mother Flemeth. While there, however, Alistair and Surana realize that they are close to Ostagar and that they must see Duncan and Cailan laid properly to rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mother Dearest

Surana took another bath when she woke up and tried to remind herself to feel guilty about wasting time. She compromised with herself, and decided that she would eat breakfast as they walked to make up for it, at least then Sten couldn’t complain. 

Or he would complain less. 

Something. 

Stanton napped beside the tub and brought her a towel when she asked. As she dressed, Surana wondered what she had ever done without him, and told him as much as they made their way to the dining hall. Stanton wagged the stump of his tail and bounced around in response. 

Her companions were already arguing about the next leg of their journey. Surana grabbed a bit of toast and sat down between Alistair and Zevran to eat it. 

“Well, what do _you_ think, Neria?” Wynne asked. 

“About what?” 

“Where we go from here.” 

Surana twisted her neck and it gave a satisfying pop. “We need to go to Denerim to see if we can find Brother Genitivi _or_ clues about the Urn, but we also need to visit the dwarves, and the Dalish clan in the Brecilian forest.” She looked down at her toast. “ _And_ I, at least, need to return to the Kocari Wilds to deal with Flemeth.” 

“Why?” Leliana asked. 

Surana looked at Morrigan and then back at Leliana. “It’s. . . a long story, but the short version is that Morrigan’s mother is trying to kill her.” 

That killed the conversation fairly immediately for a moment, though Surana did have to elbow Alistair in the ribs to keep him from asking unkind questions of Morrigan out of revenge. 

“However,” Surana shook her head. “I have no idea what order we _should_ do this in. The Darkspawn are moving, though luckily they’re not a particularly _fast_ horde of horrible, nightmarish terror.”

“Do we have a map?” Zevran asked. 

One was produced and Zevran marked out their destinations on it. 

“I think we should head to Denerim to find Genitivi,” Alistair said. “It’s our best hope of finding the Urn to cure Arl Eamon, we’ll need his help to end this war so we can focus on the Blight without Loghain sending assass--er. . . _more_ assassins.” 

“I agree.” Sten had his arms crossed. “We should find this Loghain and deal with him directly.” 

“That’s not what I--” 

“I think Alistair meant that we should find Brother Geni--

“Yes, but only _after_ we deal with Flemeth. I will not have the old hag breathing down my--”

“Maker,” Surana huffed. “Stop. Talking. At. Once.” She set her toast down. “Zev, what are you doing with that map?” 

“I believe, I have worked out the most efficient route.” He gestured. “Redcliffe is closest to the Kocari Wilds of all of our other destinations. If we head South we can deal with Morrigan’s mother, then east to the Brecilian Forest and north to Denerim. From there we can work out the next steps depending on what we find about this Urn.” 

A general murmur of agreement traveled around the table. 

“That’s brilliant.” Surana beamed at him. “Where’d you learn--”

“Planning routes is an integral part of a successful assassination,” Zevran shrugged, “also _very_

“Are you going to continue staring at me as if I am covered in eels?” Morrigan asked as they passed out of Redcliffe village. Surana looked _immediately_ at Alistair, but he’d turned his head towards Morrigan in the same moment she did. 

“Eels would be something,” Sten, in fact, had been the one staring, apparently. Surana looked over to Leliana, who shrugged, and Zevran, who chuckled. 

Morrigan raised an eyebrow, “Prudery?” She chuckled. “How charming. I had expected paranoia.” She flicked her eyes over to Surana’s just briefly, before the edge of her pretty purple painted lips pulled up into a flirtatious smile back at Sten. She batted her eyebrows. ”This is _much_ better. I prefer to be stared at lustfully, if at all.” 

“ _I_ can cert--” 

Surana cut Zevran off by elbowing him once in the ribs as they walked. 

“Keep trying, then.” Sten snorted. 

“Oh?” Morrigan looked almost hurt, fluttering her long lashes. “Then shall I demonstrate an act or two? And you may tell me hot or cold?” 

Surana had let her pace lag so she was walking _behind_ Sten and Morrigan by this point and she was trying to keep her eyes on the road in front of her and to chuckle _quietly_ if she was going to chuckle at all. 

“I’ll save time. Cold.” Sten answered. 

Morrigan chuckled again. “You _are_ a tease.” 

Sten muttered something under his breath and Surana grinned at the back of his head. “Let him alone, Morrigan.” Surana said, unable to mask the smile in her voice. 

Morrigan affected sweetness. “‘Tis not my fault his eyes chose to linger.” 

“Parshaara.” 

Surana smiled and shook her head, adjusting her pack and using her staff as a walking stick as they continued down the road. 

“Now, that is a pairing I would watch develop.” Zevran chuckled. Surana laughed. 

“Careful, Zev. Morrigan has the ears of a fox and she _might_ zap you. To say nothing of Sten’s vengeance.” 

“I am too charming to be murdered, no.” 

“ _I_ certainly think so. So don’t push it.”

* * *

“Where’d you learn to cook, Zevran?” Surana asked. Everyone else had complained, quietly, about letting the _assassin_ fix the night’s meal, but Surana had been firm about it. If Zevran was going to kill them, he had had a number of chances. Thus far, he had not and she doubted that he was going to. 

Zevran had seemed flattered--and bemused--by the whole situation. 

“It is a skill you pick up.” Zevran shrugged. “Though I have never had bear before. It is not the best tasting meat, is it?” 

“Bear is gamey and tough.” Morrigan explained, looking unperturbed. 

“Also pungent.” Leliana wrinkled her nose. “Are you having trouble with yours Wynne?” 

“I’m fine, dear. Do not concern yourself with me.” Wynne chuckled. She uncorked the bottle of wine Surana had gifted her in Redcliffe and filled everyone’s cups.

Surana leaned against Alistair, abusing the fact that physical contact wasn’t a taboo any longer. Alistair smiled at her in response.

“So, Zevran, what’s being an assassin _like_?” Surana asked, feeding her leftover bear to Stanton, who had already finished his. “I mean, what sort of adventures have you had?” 

“What makes you think I’ve had adventures?” 

“You certainly _act_ like you’ve had adventures and, really.” Surana gestured. “Leliana was a cloistered sister.”

“I wasn’t _born_ in the cloister.” 

“Still. I haven’t been off the small island where the Circle is since I was seven, Morrigan lived in the wilds, Alistair was training to be a templar. You’re almost guaranteed to have more adventures than most of us.” 

“I suppose that is fair, though falling down the _stairs_ is an adventure. Falling into someone’s bed, _also_ an adventure.”

“Wouldn’t know.” Surana shrugged. “But I meant _professional_ adventures.” 

“Wouldn’t know? You are--”

“Grew up under armed, watchful guard.” Surana shrugged. “Though that didn’t seem to stop anyone else.” 

Wynne chuckled. “It never does.” 

Surana flushed crimson, but at least Alistair did as well. She cleared her throat. “Right. So. Professional anecdotes, Zevran?” 

“Let’s see . . .” Zevran looked into the fire and then snapped his fingers as a story came to him. “My second mission for the Crows was a bit intriguing. I was sent to kill a mage who had been meddling in politics.” 

“A mage.” Surana blinked. “On your _second_ mission?” 

“It was only the one mage,” Zevran chuckled. “Not so simple as a vagrant Grey Warden or two, I suppose,” he winked, once at her and once at Alistair who looked honestly shocked. “Now, this mage was a delightful young woman, quite beautiful. Long divine legs, if I recall. I caught her carriage as she was departing for the provinces. After I killed her guard, she got down on her hands and knees and begged for her life. . . rather . . . aptly, I might add.” 

“ _Maker’s Breath_.”

“Are you alright, Alistair?” Wynne asked, nearly cackling. 

Alistair might as well have had smoke coming out of his ears. Surana gave his leg a pat. 

“So I joined her in the carriage for the night and left the next morning.” 

Surana blinked. “She didn’t . . . try to kill you or anything?” 

“Twice, actually.” 

“While you were--” Alistair cut himself off, staring wide eyed and shaking his head, completely enraptured. Leliana snorted a laugh, but had the decency to look ashamed of it. 

“She decided to use me instead. See, she had actually convinced me to speak with the Crows on her behalf.” 

“Really?” Surana raised her eyebrows. 

“Really. What can I say, I was young and foolish at the time. Then, as I was kissing her good-bye to return to Antiva City--” Zevran paused for dramatic effect and it worked. Everyone, even Sten, leaned forward just a little. Zevran’s eyes flashed in the firelight and his smile grew wicked. “She slipped on the threshold and fell backwards out of the carriage. Broke her neck. Shame really, but at least it happened quickly.” 

Surana, Leliana and Alistair all started to laugh and then covered with coughing because what a _terrible_ thing to laugh at. 

“So, you didn’t actually kill her?” Surana asked. 

“Hardly surprising.” Morrigan crossed her arms and rolled her yellow eyes. But there was a thin smile on her painted maroon lips. 

“Not technically, no. At first I was . . . unimpressed with how it turned out. But then I found out she had told her driver to take her the Gnellan instead of the provinces. I would have looked quite foolish in front of the Crows.” Zevran sighed. “As it was, my master was _very_ impressed that I had done such a fine job of making it look like an accident. The Circle of Magi was unaware of foul play and everyone was happier all around.” 

“Except the mage.” Leliana added. 

“Except the mage.” Zevran confirmed. 

“Do these things happen to you _often_?” Surana asked. 

“What? Being spared by a benevolent mark who saves me from the Crows? Yes, it does seem to happen every now and again.” He chuckled. “It was after that that I earned one needn’t let a pretty face go to your head. Professionalism was key. That’s my moral of the day, you see.” 

“So, what, you _never_ mix business with pleasure?” Alistair had clearly recovered from his initial shock and was waggling his eyebrows in an attempt to probably get Zevran to say something that would make Leliana and Surana giggle and blush. 

“Oh, I might be convinced.” Zevran’s smirk turned sultry. “I think that it would take being captured and tied up by a beautiful woman . . .” he looked at Surana, winked and then back to Alistair, “and her charming companion at the _very_ least.” 

Alistair went _scarlet_ , Surana howled with laughter in response. 

“I . . . that’s not what I . . .” Alistair exhaled. “You’re a bad man.” 

“Possibly the worst.” Zevran looked entirely unrepentant.

* * *

They continued South another day and made camp near the outskirts of the Wilds. Surana sat with Morrigan throughout both of their watches.

“You need not concern yourself with me.” Morrigan huffed, crossing her arms. Still, she made no effort to leave during Surana’s watch and didn’t complain again as Surana stirred the fire while Morrigan’s watch drifted by. Dawn crept up slowly and Surana splashed water on her face, using the cold to anchor herself to consciousness before she went to wake up the others once the water she was going to use for coffee was starting to boil.

Knocking was a luxury not really afforded _tents_ , but with Stanton’s help Surana managed to get everyone up. She brushed her hair as coffee was made and poured into waiting cups. 

“So, what is our plan of attack?” Zevran asked, taking a drink of his coffee, wincing, and then pouring sugar into the cup. “As it were.” 

Surana started to twist her hair into a tight braid. “Sten, you and Leliana will stay here with Morrigan.” 

“Why?” Sten asked. He wasn’t having any coffee, but used the water to make a cup of tea. His hair was unbraided and comically curly because of it. Surana wondered if he preferred the last watch because it gave him a chance to braid his hair while he had time to breathe.

“Because Flemeth is a powerful witch and if things go wrong I want you here, with Morrigan.” 

“I see.” 

Surana was willing to just, let Sten believe that he was there to kill Morrigan if she got possessed. It was better than explaining things further. Leliana, luckily, got the _actually_ point and nodded. “It’ll be fine.” 

“I know.” Surana twisted her braid up into a bun. “We’ll try and be back soon, but I don’t know--yeah.”

* * *

Flemeth’s hut was much as Surana remembered it, small and looking run down, a cooking fire out front with the garden of strange plants that should not have grown in the freezing wilds and Flemeth herself, tending them. She did not speak at first, though Surana did hear her chuckle and watch her shake her head as though amused at some great joke before she straightened and wiped her hands on her dirty skirt. 

When Flemeth turned to speak to Surana, her yellow eyes flashed with dangerous amusement. 

“So you return.” She smiled, the effect cruel and sharp. “Lovely Morrigan has at last found someone willing to dance to her tune. Such enchanting music she plays, wouldn’t you say?”

“Should I dance to _your_ tune instead?” Surana’s nostrils. “Morrigan told me how you intend to prolong your life.” 

“Ah,” Flemeth chuckled. “Why _dance_ at all, why not sing? Shall I repeat the story of how wicked Flemeth preys upon her daughters? It’s one Flemeth has heard many times before, even told.” 

Surana frowned, suddenly taken off balance. She didn’t let go of her staff and fought to keep the tremor from her voice as she spoke. Alistair was a templar. Flemeth was a mage. She was out numbered. 

It wasn’t as comforting a thought as Surana wanted it to be. 

“So, tell me, do you slay the old wretch as Morrigan bids or does the story take a different turn?”

“Morrigan is my friend.”

“And she wishes my grimoire? Take it as a trophy, tell her I am slain.” 

“You really think she’d believe that?” Surana shook her head. “No. Forget it. I won’t let you hunt her.” 

“A shame. What will it be then.” 

“You die.”

Flemeth looked neither concerned, nor surprised. A small smile spread wickedly across her steps. “An old dance, one Flemeth knows well, shall we see if I remember the steps?” Flemeth’s yellow eyes burned with fire. “Come. She will earn what she takes. I will have it no other way.” The fire that spread from her eyes and down her old limbs to burn away her clothing and her skin and when she threw back her head and _roared_ Surana could not agree quick enough with the slew of swears that tumbled collectively out of everyone’s mouths. 

The dragon leapt into the air and Surana fired a paralyzing bolt at it. 

Flemeth dodged. She dove and Alistair blocked fire with his shield while Zevran darted in, performed a truly beautiful backflip and drove his sharp daggers into the webbing of her wings, forcing her to land. 

“Watch her tail!” Wynne shouted, coating herself in rock and taking the aforementioned tail to the chest a moment later. Fire flared from the old woman’s fingers. 

Surana threw healing magic at Alistair and at Zevran. Stanton locked his jaws around any part of Flemeth he could and tore deep gouges in her scales with his claws, enough to Alistair and Zevran’s swords to get a foothold. 

Flemeth roared. Her tail snaked out and the tip cracked, whip-like, into Surana’s face.

* * *

“---ing round now.” Wynne said from somewhere far away and probably underwater. Surana tried to pull away from whatever cold, comforting thing was touching her face. Soft, but it hurt. Kind of . . . buzzed. 

“Thank the Maker.” Alistair was clearer than Wynne, Surana opened an eye and realized she was looking at the sky. Alistair and Zevran came into view. 

“I had absolute faith.” Zevran contributed, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Did not.” 

“Hush boys, she’s waking up.” 

Surana tilted her head back when she realized she was propped up on Wynne’s lap. “Did I miss much?” 

“Alistair cut through Flemeth’s neck.” Zevran answered. “It was really quite impressive. I think he’s upset you missed it.” 

“I am n--”

“Sssh, it’s fine, my friend. There is never any harm in trying to impress one’s lovers.” 

“She’s not my--”

“I’m not his--” Surana pushed off Wynne’s lap, giving her a grateful smile and accepting Zevran’s hand up. “We won then?” 

“We did.” Wynne knocked the grass from her robes as she accepted Alistair’s hand up. “I wonder if Morrigan knew her mother could become a dragon.” 

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Alistair growled. “I’m just glad she _stayed_ a dragon. Not sure how I’d do against a little old woman.” 

“Luckily,” Zevran grinned, “I would have done just fine.” 

“Lucky. Right.” 

“Let’s just. . .” Surana shook her head and smiled at her friends. “Let’s get Morrigan’s tome and get back.” 

“What should we do about the body?” 

“Bury the head, I guess? Wynne, can you give me a hand with the body?” 

“Of course.” 

Stanton dug the hole while Zevran pillaged the house for valuables and Alistair rested, by far the worst beat up of the lot. Wynne and Surana, working together, incinerated the body with little difficulty. Once Flemeth’s head was under ground, the quintet turned and hobbled back up the road to their camp.

Surana took the book immediately to Morrigan and smiled to show she was alright before Morrigan was forced to admit concern. “She turned into a dragon,” Surana shrugged. “Can _you_ turn into a dragon?” 

Morrigan shook her head, eyes still on Flemeth’s book. “Perhaps now I can learn. Thank you.”

“You know you can count on me, right?” Surana grinned. “I’ll protect you.” 

“Too much could happen in days to come to make such promises.” Morrigan shifted her weight. “But . . . I . . . I am grateful.”

* * *

“Maybe it’s because we just dealt with Morrigan’s but I find myself missing my mother,” Leliana sighed. “Did you ever meet yours, Neria?” 

Surana shook her head. “I was raised in a chantry monastery until I was seven and sent to the tower. I don’t even know if _Surana_ was their last name or something the sisters liked. I’ve only ever had the Circle. What was yours like?” 

“She was Fereldan and always telling me stories of her homeland, I think she missed it.”

“Your mother was Fereldan?” Surana asked. “I wouldn’t have guessed.” 

“She served an Orlesian noble woman during the occupation. After the war, she traveled with lady Cecille to Orlais. She died when I was very young, but Lady Cecille let me stay with her, she was old and had me study music and dancing to entertain her. It’s unfair, that I have more memories of her than I do of my mother.” 

“You were young, and at least you have something.” 

“I remember her scent most. She scattered flowers amongst her clothes, little white petals.” Leliana’s smile was fond and far away. “She called them _Andraste’s Grace_ , they were quite rare in Orlais.” 

“See, and all I have to remember my mother were a pair of gloves.” Zevran said. 

“Oh?” 

“She was Dalish, or so the other whores told me. She had fallen in love with an elvhen woodcutter and accompanied him back to the city, leaving her clan behind for good. Of course, the woodcutter died of some filthy disease and my mother was forced into prostitution to pay off his debts. Oldest tale in the book.” 

“Wow.” Surana blinked. “That’s . . .”

“A common story where the Crows are involved.” Zevran shrugged, seemingly entirely unperturbed. “And the same as many of the other elvhen children in the whore house. I never met my mother, she died giving birth to me, my first victim, as it were. We were all raised communally by the whores. It was happy enough, ignoring the occasional beating.” His smile warmed. “Her dalish nature was a point of fascination to me. Though all the years of my crow training, the one thing of my mother’s I kept was a pair of gloves. They were of dalish make, and beautiful.” 

“You and your leather.” 

“As you say. I kept them hidden, of course, we were not allowed such things. Eventually they were discovered and I never saw them again. You say you were raised in a monastery, Neria, did you have any memoirs of your parents, pictures? Talismans?” 

Surana shook her head. “Nothing.” 

“We have that in common,” Alistair gave her fingers a squeeze.

“It’s the same for many mages,” Wynne sighed mournfully. “Particularly if they’re taken at an early age. My first apprentice was an elf, named Aneirin. He had been raised in one of the alienages and he was very mistrustful of humans, especially humans in authority.” 

“For the most part, humans and elves are treated the same in the tower. Other than occasionally getting called “knife-ear”, I suppose.” Surana frowned. 

“He’d been raised in the Alienage and so he was . . . wary, of us. What he needed was time. Time to adjust to his new home, to build trust. I gave him no such time. I was . . . harsh . . . with him more than once. I thought he was stubborn, throwing away his talent and potential just to be difficult.”

“Seems . . . unlike you.” Alistair added. 

“I was a little younger than you are now. Arrogant and puffed up with my own self importance. Time and age mellowed me rather a lot. You can’t plant seeds in the cold, wintery ground and you can’t teach a student who is closed off and unresponsive. Sadly, I learned patience too late to help Aneirin.” 

“What happened to him, Wynne?” Surana asked. 

“He fled the Circle one night after I had . . . berated him over something insignificant.” Wynne shook her head and sighed. “He was a child, fourteen at the time. They had his phylactery and . . . hunted him down.” 

Surana went white. “Why didn’t they bring him back to the tower? They’re supposed-- _Flames_ they kept re-arresting that one ack, what’s his na--.”

“Anders?”

“Him yeah, the one Greagoir put in solitary after he cost us our outdoors privileges.” 

Wynne sighed. “They called him ‘maleficar’. He was a _child_ , lost and misunderstood. I begged the templars to tell me if he suffered, but--”

“Templars.” Surana offered in consolation. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“I should have known better, but I berated him about his studies when he tried to talk to me. He talked about the alienage sometimes, and the Dalish.” A small, sad smile wrinkled Wynne’s mouth. “He always talked about looking for the Dalish.” 

“Maybe he found them,” Leliana smiled. “We’re going to meet the clan in the Brecilian Forest, are we not?”

“Leliana’s right.” Surana nodded, doubting that the templars had failed but willing to pretend for Wynne’s sake. “It couldn’t hurt to ask.” Hoping to brighten, or at least turn, the mood, Surana turned to Sten. “Do you have any family, Sten?” 

“Hrmph.” Sten grunted. 

“...fair.” Surana shrugged. “Want my desert?”

“Yes.”

* * *

Surana kept Alistair company through his watch. She had found a shiny white runestone that he liked and he brushed her hair out because it gave him something to do with his hands and she made pleased noises because no one had played with her hair in ages. 

“So, Neria, I was thinking.” 

“Mmm?” 

“We’re close to Ostagar.” 

Surana bit down on her lower lip and nodded. “Yeah, and . . . yes. The horde has mostly moved on and it . . . they deserve to rest properly. We’ll go in the morning.” 

“What about the others?”

“I think the only person who might complain is Sten and he . . . even Sten will understand the importance of laying the dead to rest. Duncan deserves that much at least.” 

“We don’t even know if there’s a body.” Alistair’s hands stilled, the brush caught in her hair. “We don’t know anything.” 

“There’ll be something.” Surana shifted on her knees and turned to brush her fingers against Alistair’s cheek. “There’s always _something_.” 

Alistair’s fingers curled around her wrist and then drifted to her palm, lifting her hand and lacing his fingers between hers. “You always find the bright side, don’t you?” 

“I try, at least. Seems like someone here needs to.” She kissed the tip of his finger. “I’m going to get some sleep.” 

She curled up in her bedroll, Stanton around her feet for extra warmth, and drifted to sleep to the sound of the firewood crackling.


	2. In Shadows Where We Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Return to Ostagar DLC

The ruins were covered in a thick sheet of white snow and Surana was grateful she was a mage, the contained fire in her hand keeping her fingers warm. She had been right, Morrigan had been too pleased to voice any complaints about the little detour and Sten had understood the desire to give deference to the dead. 

The snow crunched under Surana’s boots. There were darkspawn about, Surana could feel the growling just off the edge of her hearing, but not the whole horde. She bit down on the inside of her cheek. 

“Something about returning here makes me feel old, Wynne.” Alistair said quietly. He had his sword at the ready, able to heard the darkspawn more clearly than Surana could. She tightened her grip on her staff and tried to feel them out. The little difference in the growling that would tell her if they were getting closer or further away, if they’d seen her yet. 

“And what exactly are you implying, Alistair?” Wynne asked. 

Surana cocked her head as something got her attention and nodded to Leliana who fired a shot in the indicated direction. A genlock fell dead in the snow. 

“What?” Alistair looked briefly confused. “Nothing! I just thought--”

“You just thought I might be an expert at feeling old and could share some sage advice.” Wynne finished his sentence. Surana listened for another darkspawn and pointed. Leliana brought the hurlock down with ease. 

“I just meant that I was a different person then.” Alistair defended. “I believed him, you know? That it would be a glorious battle. That we’d . . . win.” 

“I did too,” Wynne gave Alistair’s shoulder a kind squeeze. “We were all a little bit younger last time we were here.” 

Surana thought about Cailan, conjuring the young king easily to mind. His smile, his eyes. How overblown his performance had been. The little things that set it all in place. She wondered if _Cailan_ had thought they’d win.

The longer she thought, the more she doubted. 

He’d sent her and _Alistair_ to the tower that night. Out of the way where, even if the army fell, it was likely they’d survive. He’d moved the next in line to the throne smoothly in place. 

Had Loghain not turned on them, it seemed likely that Alistair would have been named Cailan’s successor shortly thereafter. Maric’s second son, who looked enough like his father and brother than no one would have doubted Loghain and Eamon for even a moment. Cailan had kept Eamon at Redcliffe. 

He’d known. 

Surana didn’t _say_ anything. 

“Well, not you,” Alistair gave Wynne a cheeky smile and pulled away out of swatting distance. “You’ve always been old.” 

Wynne scoffed fondly as everyone else chuckled, taking the humor in stride, warmth against the sinking memories Ostagar carried. “With lip like that, young man, you’ll be lucky to live to half my age.”

* * *

The darkspawn had covered Ostagar in traps that Zevran and Leliana worked together to disarm. Near where Surana had undertaken her Joining they found a darkspawn wearing Cailan’s greaves. They killed it quickly and Alistair held the armor in his hands. 

“What’s the matter?” Surana set her palm on his shoulder. 

“I don’t know. It just feels wrong to find this here, pawed over by darkspawn and thick with their rot. It was _his_.” 

“He’s not the first king to ever fall in battle,” Wynne tried to comfort. “Or even the first to fall to the Darkspawn.” 

Surana gritted her teeth together because platitudes weren’t helpful. She loved history, had read as many books as she could get her hands on. Kings who fell heroically still fell. 

“Yes,” Alistair glared for a moment. He tucked the greaves into his pack. “But this wound cuts deeper.”

And they had _known_ Cailan. 

Not well, perhaps. But they had known him. He had remembered her name and set her to protect his younger brother. 

“And it will bleed longer.” Wynne said.

“We’ll kill them,” Surana promised Alistair. “All of them.” 

They kept walking. Something shiny caught Surana’s eye and she knelt to brush the snow away from the cup. A small smile fitted itself on her mouth and she kissed the icy metal, only keeping her lips from sticking with a small heat spell. The joining chalice was still bloody, but it was still intact. 

She put it in her pack before following the others as they continued through the ruins. Maybe it would cheer Alistair later, proof that there was hope, that they could rebuild. 

The further into the ruins they went the more darkspawn they found. Stanton found the body the the kennel master near the kennels with the hounds who had died trying to drive the horde back. He nosed the dead man’s frozen corpse and lilted a low, mournful howl. 

“And he thought you didn’t like him,” Surana teased, unable to make her mouth form a smile. 

Stanton knocked his head into her chest. 

They took Cailan’s armor off of other darkspawn and tucked it into Alistair’s pack. She stood where the Grey Warden’s camp had been and curled her fingers around the pendant she wore. 

“The darkspawn went to great pains to defile this place in particular.” Wynne observed. 

“They must still be afraid of him.” Surana was able to smile at that. “I think that would please him.” 

“I hope so.” 

Fire burst from Surana’s fingers and the wood and twisted effigies caught and blazed with light. “Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me. But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion should they set themselves against me.” 

Cailan’s encampment was nearby. In a chest they found King Maric’s sword. Surana offered it to Alistair who took it, awestruck and speechless while she found a pile of documents. Her eyes sped along the pages, letters between Eamon and Cailan, and between Cailan and Celene. 

More pieces of Loghain’s betrayal clicked into place. 

“What’s that?” 

“Anora’s barren,” Surana offered the letter to Alistair, “and I think . . . there’s a letter here from Empress Celene.” 

“Let me see it.” Leliana plucked the letter from Surana’s fingers and she and Zevran poured over it. “Oh, Maker,” Leliana’s eyes went wide, “I believe. . . Cailan was planning on leaving Anora for Empress Celene.” 

“What? No, no.” Alistair scoffed. “He wouldn’t.” 

“This is a _very_ informal letter,” Leliana insisted. “Coupled with the believe that Anora is barren . . .”

“That would make sense,” Zevran contributed. 

“That would have driven Loghain mad.” 

“Yes.” Surana nodded. “Mad enough to betray not only his king, but Maric’s son. His daughter, passed aside for the Empress of _Orlais_?” 

“We have to tell Eamon.” 

“We will, as soon as he wakes up.”

* * *

“Maker, no.” Surana gasped as they neared the bridge. She turned, willing Alistair not to notice, but it was too late. Cailan’s body was on display, stripped bare and strung up for the birds on the bridge. His blue eyes had been plucked out by ravens, his skin torn and cut and bruised. His skin was starting to grey, decomposition only delayed by the harsh southern winter. 

“Cailan…”

The growling beneath their hearing stopped Alistair mid-sentence as both he and Surana turned to face the genlock necromancer at the end of the bridge. Alistair growled and started forward when the thing began to cast. The slain guards pulled themselves up, a wall of possessed corpses between the necromancer and Surana’s companions. 

Surana rained fire on the monsters as Alistair’s shield protected her from arrows. Behind her, she could hear Leliana, Morrigan and Wynne fighting corpses that had stood up to block they way they had come. 

Sten and Stanton charged the lines. Zevran hung close, ready to be where he was needed at a moment’s notice. 

The assault ended quickly, and they were able to turn their attention back to Cailan’s body. 

“Forgive us, my king,” Alistair took a knee in front of the corpse and at any other time it would have felt ridiculous but at that moment Surana felt nothing but affection for her friend. “Once we’ve flushed the darkspawn from their holes and bought ourselves some time, we’ll be back to see you to the Maker.”

“Duncan too,” Surana added. Alistair stood and gave her a small nod. “If we can find him.” 

“Thank you.” 

They crossed the bridge and Surana looked up at the tower of Ishal. “Alistair,” she said softly. 

Alistair nodded. “Let’s do this.”

* * *

Ishal felt like a bad, if familiar dream. They slew the darkspawn infesting the first floor with unreal ease, driven, perhaps, by rage over the wrongs they had not been able to stop. Surana followed the inaudible growling in her veins to the hole she and Alistair had noticed on their way to light beacons. “I said we’d seal this.” She said. “Let’s start at the far end.” 

The tunnel lead to an old crypt, catacombs from when this Tevinter fortress have been used, back in the early days of the empire, before the Andraste and the first blight. History was covered in corruption and spider webs, the air was rotten and choking, but Surana pushed forward. There were cobwebs in her hair and sticking to her clothes and she shivered because spiders creeped her out, but it wasn’t going to stop her from moving forward. 

They emerged on the battlefield. Wolves and birds and other scavengers had picked it over. The genlock necromancer they had been chasing slid to a halt in front of the corpse of an ogre. It turned and Surana almost could have sworn if _grinned_ wickedly at her before throwing its hands towards the orge. 

Who began to move. 

“No.” Surana shook her head. “Fucking _no_.” 

The ogre, untouched by the wild life too clever to want to eat its diseased flesh, turned his rotting frame towards her and roared. Metal glinted from its chest and throat. The weapons that had slain it. 

Sten and Alistair charged. Surana threw a shield around them both. “Bring it down!” She screamed. Morrigan summoned a storm and Wynne dedicated herself to shielding the melee fighters from it. Surana cast healing spells. 

And the ogre fell. 

Almost too late Surana noticed the necromancer waking up the bodies of the fallen soldiers. She paralyzed it and Leliana fired two arrows, piercing through its skull and dropping it half-way through its attempt to cast. 

“Duncan’s.” Alistair pulled the sword and dagger out of the dead (again) ogre’s chest. “These are Duncan’s.” 

“Then he. . .” Surana looked to Stanton. “Help me find him.” 

Dog and master tore around the battlefield until they found Duncan’s body, broken and picked at, but still Duncan. Surana fell to her knees beside him and remembered how he’d defended her in the tower and in the tavern and on the road. Gentle, kind even. Soft spoken and smiling faintly. 

She took the pendant from around Duncan’s neck and handed it to Alistair. “We’ll leave it in Highever, when we go to build our statue for him.” Surana gathered fire in her hands and gently began to burn Duncan’s body. 

She was dimly aware that there were tears frozen to her cheeks. She wiped them away, leaving little scratches on her skin. 

“Let’s go lay Cailan to rest.”

* * *

It wasn’t a pyre worthy of a king. The wood was damp and smoked too much. It wasn’t very high. It had been lit with magic and that alone would have made any self-respecting revered mother scream, but Leliana sang the chant more beautifully than any choir. Alistair held Surana’s hand as Cailan was returned to the Maker in ash and flame. They walked back to camp in the gathering twilight, and never once did Alistair let go of her fingers. 

He was crying, she realized. She couldn’t blame him. Her fingers twisted around his to squeeze, serving as his anchor. A grounding point. 

“I met him once, you know,” Alistair said as he tugged his breast plate off and slumped beside their camp fire. Surana pressed her fingers to the darkening bruises on his chest and began to heal them. “Cailan.” 

“I didn’t know that.”

“I was five. He and Maric--er . . . my father were visiting Eamon. The king seemed . . . sad. He asked how I was and I think he was trying to do the whole father thing, but it was awkward for him, I know.” 

“That must have been hard.” 

“If I’d been older maybe. Cailan though . . . he took me outside and told me about Anora and how he was going to be king. He asked if I wanted a brother and I said yes. He gave me a little toy horse.” Alistair shook his head. “It was fifteen years ago. I don’t think he would have remembered.” 

“He would have.” Surana’s hands stopped moving but didn’t lift off Alistair’s skin. “He . . . Cailan, not Duncan, ordered you and I to the tower of Ishal. I wasn’t sure at the time, but . . . after reading his letters I know that Cailan . . . he was trying to protect you. You and Ferelden. He sent me to look after you.” 

She pulled away and grabbed her pack, producing the Joining Chalice. “We can rebuild the Wardens, Alistair. And Ferelden. We can make it alright.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead and Alistair curled his arms around her and squeezed.


End file.
